


these hands not fit for holding (but I will hold them anyway)

by BatWingsandBlackCats



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Carmilla - Freeform, F/F, Fluff, Hollstein - Freeform, Monster Carmilla, monster!Carm, not by any characters though don't worry, very minor implied atempted rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatWingsandBlackCats/pseuds/BatWingsandBlackCats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla is a monster, but Laura decides that that might not be such a bad thing. </p>
<p>(This isn't a re-write avoiding the Hollstein breakup, it's separate entirely, but I used a few lines from the fight because it fit rather well.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	these hands not fit for holding (but I will hold them anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> All of the Monster!Carm art and fanfiction floating around tumblr (not to mention Carm blogging about it as well) after recent episodes has gotten me so inspired. I had the title in mind for a while, and was thinking about doing a fic about Monster!Carm, and I couldn't resist once the idea got popular amongst the fandom. I also did a Monster!Carm painting a couple days ago, and if anybody's curious, you can see it [here](http://batwingsandblackcats.tumblr.com/post/125260062374/you-think-im-a-monster-sweetheart-you-havent) :)
> 
> The first half of the title is a line from Florence + The Machine's [Hiding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0CczKQAqiQ)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!! comments and critiques are always welcome and very much appreciated :)

These hands are not fit for holding, these hands so stained with the blood of hundreds. These hands that have aided in ending oh so many lives, wildly, _gleefully_. They look clean, soft and gentle with chipped black nail polish coating blunt nails, but sometimes all Carmilla can see is red clinging to her pale skin, hearing the soft, slow _drip, drip_ of someone’s life falling from he fingers, her mouth, onto marble floors. 

She can’t remember every one of her kills, and she can’t decide if it’s worse to remember each, or to know that she’s capable of forgetting the many hundreds of bodies she’s drained.

Sometimes she wishes she could remember, other times, she wishes she could forget every single one of them.

1942\. The soldier. The first person she’d seen in seventy years, and she’d ripped his throat out in a matter of seconds. _“Miss? Miss, can you understand me? Where is the blood coming from, are you hu--”_ His words had been cut off by a horrific gurgle, his windpipe suddenly missing a large chunk. She hadn’t understood a word he said, far too disoriented to understand anything but her mother tongue, and too confused to even begin to decipher his American accent. She’d drained the poor boy, who could have no older than twenty, dry within minutes. 

1705\. Versailles, the girl who worked in the kitchens. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen, but Mircalla had been hungry, and he hadn’t cared. She sometimes still heard the screams of the woman who found the body reverberating around her skull. The girl’s eyes had remained wide open in shock, a small, hand-shaped bruise over full lips and crimson smeared over her neck.

1993\. The stoner at that Nirvana show in Seattle. She’d tripped off her ass for _hours_ after finishing him off. She should have been more careful, she knew that, but she hadn’t been able to get her hands on any blood bags for several days and she’d been desperate. And there he was, in that bathroom, slumped against one of the stalls and staring at the wall with a vacant smile plastered on his face. She’d found herself curled in a ball at the base of a tree in some park the next morning, soaking wet from the rain, and staggered home. To this day she hadn’t been able to work out what the fuck had been in his bloodstream, but judging by the shadow people that darted out of every door and lurked in the corners of her eyes, she guessed a handful of benadryl had been part of the cocktail.

1945\. Paris. The little boy, only eleven years old. She’d been delirious after waking from a string of nightmares that had placed her back in her bloody tomb, and he’d been the first face she’d seen. She ripped his throat out just like that soldier. After coming to and realizing what she’d done, she’d screamed and tried in vain to wake him. She’d closed his eyes with shaking hands and fled when she heard footsteps approaching. 

1969\. Woodstock. Nobody ever noticed the one of many topless girl in the middle of the crowd for Jimi Hendrix disappear. She was a blip on the news several days later. Her body was unmarked aside from the two shallow puncture wounds at her neck. Police had suspected her boyfriend, the punctures assumed as some odd kink.

Maman had always praised her highly for her kills, always telling her how impressed she was. Maman would always assure her that they were superior, that they were entitled to whoever, and however much they wanted.

_“kleine Tier, du bist gut zu lernen,”_

_“Well done, my glittering girl, Maman is very proud,”_

_“Take your pick, little beast,”_

_“We are superior, Mircalla, perfected creatures, far above these humans. They exist only to feed us,”_

_“Don’t leave them alive, sweetling, they may come back to hunt you, and we can’t have that,”_

There had been a time where she had _lived_ for the hunt. It had thrilled her, pumping life through her dead heart. Saigon with Mattie had been one such time. Her and Mattie had _destroyed_ the place. Bodies were left in the streets, the gutters running red with blood left behind. Those who survived hid, quivering behind locked doors. Her and Mattie had laughed and laughed, perched upon a rooftop, the fronts of their dresses drenched in blood. 

Carmilla had seduced a fair few of her victims, but that had been mostly during the years after her turning. The temptation of a lady love was _far_ too tempting for many a young woman in the 1700’s. Maman didn’t give a damn who she fancied, having lived for so many years, witnessing so much change and fluctuation about what love was acceptable. Maman didn’t give a damn as long as Carmilla did her job. And Carmilla did it well. Carmilla was the forbidden fruit and she was _acutely_ aware of that. And the prospect of drawing her kills in in this manner had been oh so entertaining for the young vampire. On more than one occasion moans became screams, and not ones borne of pleasure, but of pain, of terror. On more than one occasion, Carmilla left behind a cold body and bloody sheets. 

Aside from the little boy in Paris, those were the kills she regretted the most.

Maman would make her take Will for weeks at a time to teach him how to hunt better. _(“William, why can you not hunt like your sister? You never succeed in finding the biggest vein, the one most thrumming with life. Mircalla can find it one bite, why does it always take you more than one? Mircalla, darling, take your brother hunting, will you? Teach him the proper way,”)_ He was a cocky little shit just as much then as he had been before that stake had pierced his chest, and that made him sloppy. he was a messy eater with absolutely no couth. Carmilla had to finish off more than a few of his kills to put them out of their misery. He’d laughed and called her soft. _“What’s wrong, Kitty? Can’t take hearing them? I don’t understand why Mother favors you so, you’re soft, unable to even take their crying--”_ She’d grabbed him by the collar, slamming up against the wall, snapping her bared fangs at his neck. He didn’t understand. She growled the words out between snapping teeth that she’d been very much like him, once upon a time. Relishing in the blood, the killing, gleefully backing her victim into a corner, all bared fangs and blurred movements before she drained them of life, before she watched the light fade from their eyes, leaving them behind in a crumpled heap. She had razed villages to the ground beside Maman, beside Mattie, and laughed at the wreckage they left behind, only caring about her full stomach and the buzz in her head. 

That was before the little boy in Paris.

That was before Ell.

That was after she’d lost her humanity, it dying along with Countess Mircalla Karnstein on that ballroom floor, after she’d stopped caring about _anything._

That was before she got her humanity back in the form of a girl with blonde hair like corn silk and eyes as turquoise as the the water at the shores of Mykanos. 

And she paid for it with seventy years of blood in the dark.

 

There were only three kills that she never felt any guilt for. 

2003\. Manhattan, Hell’s Kitchen. She’d been down near Terminal Five for a concert when she’d heard screaming coming from an alley she was passing on the way back to her hotel room in Midtown. Normally, she didn’t give a damn about anything around her, but she’d heard sheer terror, _pain_ in that scream. She’d ran down that alley in a blur, ripping the man off of that poor girl and throwing him to the ground. Her scent was barely on him. They weren’t together. She’d yelled for the girl to run before snapping his neck. The girl was traumatized enough, she didn’t need to hear the sickening crunch of his vertebrae beneath her fingers. She’d fed on him because what was the sense of leaving a meal out to rot?

2006\. Amsterdam, Red Light District. She was walking home to her apartment after spending a night in a club. She’d been bored and wanted someone to flirt with, but ultimately she hadn’t taken her home. The woman had a few too many so Carmilla sent her home in a cab. She’d heard raised voices and and turned, stopping as she studied the two humans before her. Their scents this time were mingled. They were together. The man said something about her cheating, and she denied it between wracking sobs. He’d punched her in the face, sending her to the ground. Carmilla snarled and ran at him. Her teeth were clamped on his neck and his screams died within minutes as his body fell limp. The girl had scrambled away with terror in her eyes and words of thanks on her lips. Carmilla didn’t bother trying to hide the body. She went home and packed her few things, slipped her rent money under the door of her landlord, and was in Budapest the next day. 

1997\. Vienna. Carmilla had been out picking up takeout, of all things, at five in the morning. A teenage boy was being held up beside the restaurant by an older man with a gun. The boy’s heart was beating a mile a minute, and she could _smell_ the fear emanating from him. She’d set her bag on the stone wall and sauntered up to the older man, a smirk on her lips. She ran a hand down his back and when he turned, she regarded him with lidded eyes. “Nun wollen wir nicht, das zu tun, jetzt tun wir? Wenn Du den armen Jungen zu gehen, werde ich es die Mühe wert, hmm?” _(“Now, we don’t want to do that, now do we? If you let the poor boy go, I’ll make it worth your while, hmm?”)_ She’d purred, her flawless German rolling off her tongue. She’d always been the most successful when speaking her mother tongue. The man had looked at her, dumbfounded. She’d laughed softly, taking the gun from his hand and hissing, “Führen Sie entlang gehen, jetzt,” _(“Run along, go, now,”)_ to the boy. Once the boy was out of sight, she turned back to the man, who had a filthy smirk on his face. He made an expectant noise, and she smiled sweetly at him, before her fangs slid out and she tore into his neck, his scream never making it past his lips. 

One more had been added to that list, as of late.

2014\. Mama Klause. She may have seemed reluctant, but there was no way in hell she was going to let Laura get hurt. And she needed the meal. She needed that meal so badly. But she’d wanted Laura to ask first, what with Laura insisting that she did’t have to be so closely protected. She knew Laura was strong and capable, and she wasn’t going to take that way from her. 

 

She’d stopped hunting nearly altogether over the last several years. She couldn’t erase the many hundreds she’d killed throughout her life, but she tried not to add to the number. Bloodbags were a wondrous invention. She’d been using them more and more as medicine progressed. 

She felt some degree of guilt, whether she remembered the killing or not, for every one of her victims. Ell had seen her as a monster, and rightfully so. She _was_ a monster. By nature. There was absolutely no way around that. She was a killer, a _murderer_ , whether her existence depended on it or not. She took others’ lives to prolong her own. 

But here was Laura, her Laura, always looking at her with such affection in those candle-flame eyes, and holding her hands so stained with blood. She held her bloodstained hands like someone who didn’t understand, like someone who didn’t understand the magnitude of what those hands had done. 

Because she didn’t.

_(“What am I supposed to think when you’re all ‘Caring about people who aren’t us is stupid, poptart,’ and ‘Remember that time we ate half of Saigon? Fun times!’” “That’s part of who I am, Laura, so is Mattie. You can’t expect all of that to just evaporate because I love you!”)_

Carmilla was seated up in the solarium, atop one of the few plush chairs that were scattered around the room. She’d been up there for hours, her eyes tracing the many thousands of stars above her. She was tracing the constellations by memory, but her mind wasn’t in it. Her mind was churning about Laura. Laura saw so much good in her, and despite the fact that Carmilla was in awe over the fact that this little ray of sunshine could look at her with affection, maybe even love, and see that she could maybe be a good person, she didn’t want that to be the only reason why Laura loved her. She didn’t want Laura to love only the good parts about her. She needed Laura to see the blood on her hands, and be okay with it. Hell, she’d take tolerant. That would at least be a start.

“Carm?” Came a small voice behind her. 

Carmilla turned to find Laura standing in the doorway, fingers tangled together and eyes looking sheepish. “Hey, cupcake,” she said softly with a tiny smile. 

“Hey,” Laura said quietly.

Carmilla’s eyes were soft. “I’m not going to say I don’t bite, because we both know that _that_ isn’t true, but...come here?” She held her arms open. 

Laura smiled a little and came forward. “I’ve been thinking,”

“Oh?”

Laura nodded. She looked down, folding Carmilla’s hands in her own and running her thumbs across them gently. “You _are_ a monster, Carm,”

Carmilla winced internally. She may have accepted her title, but it didn’t mean she liked it. And despite the fact that it’s what she wanted Laura to understand, hearing it fall from her gentle lips hurt uniquely. She remained quiet, sensing that Laura had a rant coming.

“But,” Laura continued, “That might not be such a bad thing,”

Carmilla looked up, her eyes confused. “Do you know how much blood I’ve spilt?” She asked quietly, “How many lives I’ve ended? It’s a part of my past, and a part of my future that I’ve accepted, but it doesn’t make it good, Laura. The fact that _I love you_ doesn’t mean that these hands should be held,”

Laura shook her head. “I’m not saying that that’s a good thing. What I’m saying is, is that, yes, its a part of you. It’s how you survived. I’m not going to ignore that, Carm. Yes, it was easy to understand in the abstract, and look over, but I’ve been thinking about this for _hours._ By definition, yes, you are a monster. You are a supernatural creature with malicious intent, and you’ve done things that go against what’s socially acceptable. I’m doing my best not to brush that aside anymore. It might take some more time to sink in, but I understand what you’ve done. But you are a _good_ person too, Carm,” Laura touched Carmilla’s cheek gently. “You love, and whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you care about people other than yourself,” She gave Carmilla a look, though she was smiling. Carmilla rolled her eyes. “Being a monster doesn’t make you _bad_. It’s just a fact of life,” She bit her lip, looking a little nervous all of a sudden. “And...I love you,” She shrugged, “ _all of you._ So...just because you’re a monster, that doesn’t mean that you’re a scary, horrible person,"

Carmilla stared at her, dumbfounded. 

“Uh...Carm...?” Laura asked after a moment, those candle-flame eyes filling with worry. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” She said quickly, “I just wanted to show you that I accept you for everything you are, I mean that, I mean I know I’m never going to really get it, I mean, how could I, I wasn’t alive then, but I recognize your monstrous parts just as much as your good parts. Not to say that there are only _parts_ of you that are good, you’re all good, really, I just mean--”

“Laura,” Carmilla said, smiling amusedly, her voice raised slightly and her hands cupping Laura’s cheeks. “breathe, sweetheart,” 

Laura looked up at her, still looking a little worried as she heaved a deep breath, but less so at the sight of Carmilla’s smile. 

Carmilla ghosted a thumb over Laura’s bottom lip, biting her own as she tried to figure out how to respond. 

“Ca--mmph!” Laura gasped as Carmilla’s lips crashed onto her own. She sighed into the kiss, her hands moving to cup the back of Carmilla’s head, gentle fingers tangling in chestnut curls. Carmilla sucked gently on Laura’s upper lip, nipping tenderly now and then. Laura gently prodded Carmilla’s lips with her tongue, asking for permission which was eagerly granted. Carmilla snaked her arms around Laura’s waist, pulling tighter, drawing her closer. Laura smelled of lavender and a hint of smoke from the fireplace downstairs, and it would have made Carmilla’s head spin if the kiss wasn’t already responsible for that.

Laura broke away for air, and Carmilla just stared at her, lips parted and eyes wide. “Laura, you are...” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly as she searched for the right word. “... _incredible,”_

Laura blushed deeply, tucking a strand of hair behind Carmilla’s ear. She looked down, shuffling her feet a little.

Carmilla lifted her chin gently, and brushed her lips against Laura’s. “Thank you,” she whispered against soft, kiss swollen lips.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> If you want to swing by [my Tumblr](http://batwingsandblackcats.tumblr.com/) to say hi or suggest a prompt, by all means, feel free!


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